


Against The Grain

by Jay_eagle



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas Whump, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, MJN Air Is A Family, Male Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, caring!Martin, sick!Douglas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to a prompt over at Dreawidth, requesting Martin helping Douglas with a migraine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against The Grain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linguini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/gifts).



> This is also for the very brilliant Linguini, the absolute master of Douglas whump.

It took Martin half the flight back from Cologne to realise that Douglas had fallen unusually silent. His co-pilot was no longer seizing as normal on every opportunity to tease; Douglas simply blanked Arthur when he spilt half his mug of fortunately-lukewarm tea on Martin, when ordinarily he would have made a half-cutting half-affectionate jibe about the Captain now being even wetter than usual, or an insult to that effect. Martin attempted to shoot subtle glances over to his right, but failed to perceive anything other than that Douglas’ profile seemed to be in its habitual alignment, bent over the instruments or staring out in front as his duties required.

 

The captain was operating, so Douglas really had relatively little to do – normally he’d be in his element, throwing word game proposals out like confetti, or trying to entice Martin to lose another trivial bet to him. Why was he so uncommunicative?

 

“Everything OK?” Martin ventured, and Douglas grunted acquiescence before lapsing back into taciturnity. Fruitlessly, Martin wracked his brains to try and find some reason for the FO’s mood – he pondered the command decisions he’d taken that day, mulled over the game they were playing earlier. But Douglas had won that, and Martin couldn’t think of any particularly contentious orders or even requests that he’d made since Germany, two hours previously. Douglas couldn’t be cross with him, surely. And nor had Martin witnessed him falling out with either Arthur or Carolyn.

 

He looked over at Douglas again, just in time to catch a slight wince and a passing of the FO’s hand over his eyes. “Headache?” he asked, tentatively – knowing Douglas _hated_ any suggestion of weakness being applied to him.

 

Douglas scowled. “It’s nothing.”

 

“I’ve got some paracetamol in my flight bag if –“

 

“I said it’s nothing.” They flew on in silence, now descending through the clouds – the thick white fug enveloping GERTI a rather apt representation of the flight deck atmosphere, Martin thought, grimly.

 

Once they’d landed, he completed the shut-down checks before turning back to Douglas. Unusually, the FO was still sitting stock-still rather than making hasty preparations to depart. Martin was mildly disturbed to note the light sheen of sweat on Douglas’ brow and the paper-white pallor of his normally tanned face. He drew a cautious breath before speaking. “You really don’t look well.”

 

Douglas made a moue of apparent discontentment and shook his head, then flinched at the movement. At least he hadn’t snapped again; Martin felt emboldened to continue. “Still in pain?”

 

Douglas hesitated, wincing. “Migraine.”

 

“Oh.” Martin reached out to pat his co-pilot’s shoulder, but reconsidered and pretended instead that he’d simply meant to flip one of the switches on the instrument panel. “My uncle had those. Ghastly things.” He considered for a second. “Can I do anything?”

 

Douglas looked miserable. His voice, when he spoke, was skirting the edges of humiliation, as if admitting to some great personal failing. “Well. Um. Could you… give me a lift home?”

 

“A lift?”

 

“I can’t… can’t really see.” Douglas flapped a limp hand in front of his eyes. “Visual aura – like flashing lights,” he offered, by way of explanation.

 

“You can’t see?” Martin was really anxious now. “Shouldn’t I call someone? A doctor? Do you need an ambulance?” He reached to take Douglas’ pulse, not thinking logically about what he’d use the information for once he had it. Douglas tugged his wrist away – though not angrily – and Martin was slightly relieved to see a flash of humour cross the FO’s face despite his obvious discomfort.

 

“It’s normal, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Douglas teased. “Only get these maybe… once every two years. Just, when they come, they’re real stinkers.”

 

“Oh.” Martin relaxed a bit. “OK. If you’re sure. My van’s out in the car park.”

 

Douglas stood with a grunt, and followed Martin unsteadily out towards the portacabin.

 

* * *

 

“Here we are.” Martin drew up outside Douglas’ house.

 

“Thanks.” Douglas hadn’t said a word all the way home, to Martin’s concern – he had merely put his one hand over his closed eyes and gripped the seat with the other. Now he groped blindly for the door handle, missing it twice before Martin took pity on him and leaned to get it. Douglas didn’t acknowledge the assistance, just stood slowly and slung his flight bag far more gently than was his wont across one shoulder.

 

“Will you be alright?”

 

“Fine. Thanks again.” Douglas raised a hand in farewell, his eyes failing to focus on Martin’s face, before he turned and trudged his way up the garden path. Martin watched his progress, increasingly worriedly – he knew Douglas hated to be coddled, but he looked almost drunk, the way he was swaying from side to side.

 

And then Douglas missed the keyhole and dropped his fob. Martin heard the muffled curse even from ten metres away. He gave Douglas two seconds of helplessly groveling on the ground for the keys before his mind was made up.

 

 _Enough._ He pulled the handbrake on firmly, hopped down from the cab and strode up to Douglas’ house with the confidence he normally only felt on board GERTI. 

 

“That does it,” he said, making Douglas jump as he reached his side. “I’m coming in.” In one swift move he scooped up the fallen keys and let them both into Douglas’ hallway, Douglas gaping in a manner distantly reminiscent of one of Martin’s childhood goldfish.

 

“Not a word,” Martin said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Go and lie down, if that’s what’ll help. I’ll bring you some water.”

 

For a second, Douglas looked as if he might dispute this command, but then – to Martin’s amazement – he closed his mouth and nodded, trudging into the lounge and (by the sound of it) flopping limply on to the sofa.

 

Feeling a warm trickle of satisfaction, Martin nudged their two flight cases out of the way and headed for the kitchen. In rifling through the cupboards for a glass he came across a few packets of tablets, including one of Migraleve. He popped two pills out of the foil, and took them to Douglas with a tumbler of cool water. “Here you are.”

 

Douglas squinted up at him. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and gulped the drugs down, before closing his eyes.

 

Martin still didn’t like the look of his drawn countenance. “Anything else?” He saw Douglas hesitate. “Come on, what is it?”

 

Douglas gave in. “Flannel. Under the bathroom sink. Cool water, please.” The intense pain seemed to have robbed him of the ability to form complete sentences, but at least Martin could easily comprehend and fulfill the request.

 

He found the stack of flannels without difficulty and soaked one in a basin of cold water, before wringing it out and folding it neatly. He wandered back into the lounge and unceremoniously applied the compress directly to the first officer’s forehead, eliciting a hiss from Douglas – hopefully of mild relief.

 

“Right.” Martin cast his mind back to the times he’d seen his uncle struck down with a bad head. “I’ll just draw these curtains and then I’ll let you rest.”

 

“Mmph.” Douglas’ reaction was less than effusive, but he already looked a little less agonized. Martin took it as a small victory, and quietly withdrew to the kitchen to flip through the copy of Airliner World he kept in his flight bag.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Martin tentatively pushed open the door to the lounge, bearing a tray with a steaming bowl of tinned tomato soup. “Douglas?”

 

Douglas sat bolt upright in apparent shock. “Whassamatter -?!” He flinched, and rubbed his eyes, clearly disturbed from a sleep. “M-Martin?” He squinted, struggling to make out the captain’s silhouette in the dim light. “You’re still here? I thought you’d left hours ago.”

 

“Nope.” Martin set the tray down on the coffee table. “What kind of a captain would I be to leave a crew member in distress?” He was only half-joking.

 

“Hmph.” Douglas was terse, but Martin could detect a touch of gratitude in the way his co-pilot warmly accepted the soup from him. Douglas managed a few spoonfuls. “S’not bad.”

 

“Heinz’s finest. Found it in your kitchen.” Martin shifted from foot to foot, aware that he was hovering. “Need anything else?”

 

“A slash.” Douglas set the soup aside. “Not that I’m expecting you to help with that.”

 

Martin laughed. “I should think not.”

 

Douglas grinned. “You go home. I’ll be fine, honestly – whoa!” He’d stood and instantly staggered sideways, Martin leaping to catch him without a second thought. The smile vanished from Douglas’ face faster than chalk wiped from a blackboard, and even in the gloomy murk of the lounge Martin could see he’d gone practically grey.

 

The feel of Douglas’ fingers clutching desperately at his forearm affirmed Martin’s resolve. “You’re _not_ fine. I’m staying the night.”

 

“No,” muttered Douglas, mulishly, trying to draw away, but swaying as he did so.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not asking, I’m telling you.’

 

Douglas’ only response was a grim growl, but he didn’t offer any further arguments. Martin linked their arms more firmly and urged Douglas gently forwards. “Course set for the door of the loo, first officer.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“And then bed?”

 

Douglas gave a weary, long-suffering sigh. “Whatever you say.”

 

It wasn’t the most gracious acceptance of assistance that Martin had ever heard, but he felt that for now it would do.

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, with no flights scheduled and no van jobs booked for Martin. He awoke with a sense of slight disorientation, curled up in Douglas’ spare bed, taking a few moments to realise where he was. There was a delicious smell curling into his nostrils… bacon? And someone was whistling a jaunty tune below. He stretched, and got up.

 

“You look better,” Martin observed, as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. Douglas was wielding a spatula and wearing an apron at a ridiculous half-twisted angle.

 

The first officer turned. “Aha. My Master and Commander awakens.” He waggled a fork at Martin. “Bacon sarnie?”

 

“Mm, please.” Martin took a seat at the table, his stomach rumbling appreciatively at the delicious greasy aroma coming from the pan on the stove. “Sleep alright?”

 

“Like a log, once you –“ Douglas blushed slightly and cleared his throat, turning back to the pan. “Once I’d got to bed.”

 

Martin chuckled under his breath. “All mended?”

 

“Quite better, thanks.” Douglas slid the fried bacon out of the pan on to the bread he’d toasted ready. “Magic, magic Migraleve.”

 

“Good-o.” Martin accepted the proffered plate, Douglas beaming at him.

 

“Enjoy.” They tucked in, comfortable silence falling between them as they munched their way through breakfast.

 

Martin caught Douglas’ eye as they both finished. “Cheers. Excellent bacon-ing, chef.” He took the plate to the sink.

 

“Not at all.” Douglas seemed to be gripped with a fit of sudden embarrassment. “And. Er. Thanks. For –“ he waved his hand, uncertainly. “You know.”

 

“Not at all,” Martin echoed, only a very _small_ part of him enjoying Douglas’ discomfiture. “I’ll be off, if you’re all hale and hearty once more.”

 

“Course.” Douglas stood as well, and followed Martin to the hall, where he rather awkwardly watched the captain shrug on his coat. Martin grew even more quietly amused, but hid it as he made for the front door.

 

“Captain?”

 

Now, that word _did_ make Martin pause in amazement. Douglas – voluntarily calling him by his title? In their off-hours?

 

“Yes?” He turned, disbelief in his eyes.

 

Douglas cleared his throat, gruffly. “I meant it. Thank you.”

 

Martin’s heart buoyed like GERTI soaring upwards on a clear day. He nodded. “Anytime...” He couldn’t resist, though. As he stepped out of the door, he called back. “After all – Douglas?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’ve heard it’s always useful to have someone owe you a _colossal_ favour.” Martin grinned wickedly.

 

He could hear Douglas’ chuckle in his reply. “See you tomorrow. Enjoy your day off… sir.”


End file.
